Cilka's Journey(37)

It takes until the final hour of her shift for Cilka to find an excuse to go to the dispensary. She takes one container of the pills, slips it into the extra pocket sewn into her skirt where she normally puts food to take back to the hut. It is just one container, she thinks. She just can’t face up to this relative peace—this position, these friends—being lost.

As she steps outside after her shift she glances over toward the administration building. She sees the messenger, the polite man with the brown eyes, walking across spotlit grass. He raises a cigarette to his lips, pauses his walk, closes his eyes and inhales. Despite his layers of clothing, his scarf and hat, his worn boots, there is an elegance to him, in the small pleasure he takes on the inhale, in the exhaled smoke rising above him and his gloved fingers poised in front of his mouth. Cilka feels something shift inside her.

She keeps walking.





CHAPTER 11


Name: Stepan Adamovich Skliar

Date: September 14, 1947. Time of Death: 10:44

Placing the blanket over Stepan’s head, Cilka walks back to the desk area, slowly flicking through Stepan’s file. A couple of recent entries catch her attention and she reads on.

Ukrainian prisoner, presented three days previously with stomach pain. Nothing identified on examination. Watch and wait. Age: 37 years.

She looks for the treatment plan. There isn’t one. Investigations: nil. Pain relief: occasional.

A doctor is sitting at the desk nearby. She hands him the file.

“I’ve noted the time of death for this patient, Gleb Vitalyevich.”

“Thank you, just leave it there.” He indicates a pile nearby.

“If you would like to sign it, I can file it immediately.”

The doctor takes the record from her and flicks quickly through it. He scribbles something on the front page and hands the file back.

“Thank you, I’ll file it.”

With her back turned to the doctor, Cilka looks at the entry. The doctor’s illegible signature beside her notation. Then the words “Cause of Death: unknown.”

Cilka looks back at the doctor, noting how little he is writing in any record, how he is not reading previous entries, and how the pile of records that was in front of him when she approached is now reduced to three or four.

With anger growing inside her, Cilka doesn’t see Yelena approaching until she stops in front of her, blocking her path.

“Is something the matter, Cilka?”

Cilka takes several moments to think of how to respond.

“Why do you go to great lengths to save some people and not others? How do you decide who should live and who should die?”

Yelena frowns. “We try and save everyone.”

“You do, not every doctor here does.”

Yelena takes the file from Cilka, scanning the last entries.

“Hmm, I see what you mean. It’s possible that investigations were made and simply not recorded.”

“Possible, but I don’t think so.”

Yelena looks at Cilka seriously. “You need to be careful, Cilka. The administration needs functional bodies to work, and so saying anybody was deliberately hindering the sick from getting better so they can serve Mother Russia is a more serious accusation than you may realize.”

Cilka takes back the file with a little more force than she should have.

In the small filing room filled with boxes she goes to place Stepan’s file in the current open box. Taking the last two files out she quickly looks at the entries. Both causes of death do seem valid to her untrained brain. She will keep her thoughts to herself and heed Yelena’s advice not to pry. After all, it’s not as though she is doing everything right by the patients. Though she tries her hardest, there is that one container of pills slipped into her pocket every now and then.



* * *



“Are you religious?” Yelena asks Cilka one day, standing in the corner of the ward near an unconscious patient who has just been looked over by Gleb Vitalyevich. It is dark outside, and snowing.

“No,” Cilka answers quickly, though it is not the full answer. “Why?”

“Well…” She is keeping her voice low. As Cilka remembers, one does not talk about religion in the Soviet Union. Any religion. “It’s the season where some religions celebrate … I wasn’t sure if it meant anything to you.”

“No, not me.” Cilka looks down at the patient. Talking about this means talking about a lot of other things. Talking about the annihilation of her people. About how hard it is to have faith the way she once could. “You?”

“Well, in Georgia, it was always a time when we would gather with family, and have food and music…” It’s the first time Cilka has seen Yelena look properly sad, wistful. She is always forthright, practical, in the moment. “Are you just not … Christian?”

“No, not a Christian.”

“Dare I ask, any other religion?”

Cilka pauses for a moment too long.

“It’s all right. You don’t have to answer. You know that if you ever want to talk about where you come from … just know I will not judge you.”

Cilka smiles at her. “A long time ago, my family did celebrate … around this time of year. Also with food, lots of food, lights, blessings and songs…” She looks around her, fearing someone may overhear. “But it is hard to remember.”